Down from room 227
where Mary tut-tutts
hottie-tottie Sandra,
down past where a cockroach
could fuck a platypus flat-footed,
I found the tweak monster there.
He said "Beware!" as a jeweled
lure, his white, top-heavy body
arrayed in wide mirrored eyeballs,
each crowned with a frosty lash.
His stare, his glass pipe,
and a myriad harsh voices
laid me bare, this boy in a box --
profane ritual, an indeterminate
sacrifice on ice.
(It's a well-known fact that
the balancing act of observation
alters the object observed.
Less noted is the change
in the observer.)
See the downward-turned
mouth full of three rows
of sharp teeth, clacking,
"That's what you get."
He hands me my crucifix:
The passion of so-and-so,
bludgeon him with sticks
and crown his brow with thorny Choice.
When he passes by, spit,
and fix him a hit.
No comments:
Post a Comment